Ardyn and Mia wove through the crowded city streets, the air thick with the mingled scents of exotic spices, warm baked bread, and woodsmoke. Their eyes scanned the rows of vibrant stalls until they found the small, familiar bakery nestled between a blacksmith's and a potter's shop.
Inside, the warmth of the ovens was a physical presence. The baker's daughter was behind the counter, dusting flour from a rolling pin. She froze the moment she noticed Ardyn in the doorway, her eyes widening slightly. Dressed in simple work clothes, her apron tied a little crooked and strands of hair escaping a loose braid, she looked every bit the part of someone caught mid-task. A faint, rosy blush colored her cheeks as she quickly straightened, flustered by his unexpected presence.
Ardyn stepped forward, offering a polite nod. "Good day," he said, his voice quiet but clear.
Mia lingered a few steps behind, doing her very best to suppress a knowing grin at the sudden, palpable awkwardness that had settled over the cozy bakery.
Ardyn shuffled his feet, the words he'd practiced clotting uselessly on his tongue. He could feel the heat rising in his face under the baker girl's patient, curious gaze. "I… we… cake…" he managed, the fragments of the language feeling clumsy and inadequate. He gestured vaguely toward the ovens, then to himself, hoping the pantomime of work would translate where his words failed.
Sensing his floundering, Mia darted forward with a triumphant, teasing grin. "He wants to work," she announced clearly, speaking over his stumbling attempt. "For a cake. A birthday cake."
The baker girl blinked, momentarily surprised by the blunt and unusual request. Then, a small, understanding laugh escaped her. She looked from Mia's mischievous face to Ardyn's thoroughly embarrassed one, his ears now burning a bright red.
He nodded vigorously, too flustered to form another sentence, but his expression was earnest. The humiliation was a small price to pay. He was more than willing to chop wood, haul flour, or scrub floors—any task she named—to prove his offer was sincere and earn the celebration Seres deserved.
The Baker's Fluster
As she stepped back behind the counter, the girl's heart hammered against her ribs. Why does he have to be so… striking? Ardyn's golden hair seemed to catch all the morning light in the shop, his features a blend of sharp elegance and unexpected gentleness that made it difficult to look directly at him. A strange, fluttering warmth crept into her cheeks, stubborn and undeniable.
Her eyes dropped to her own appearance—the apron smudged with flour and dough, her hair tied back in a haphazard knot, strands already escaping to frame her face. Oh no… if he'd come any earlier, I would have dressed properly—worn the blue ribbon, at least. A wave of embarrassment washed over her. Her fingers nervously twisted the flour-dusted hem of her apron, and she cursed silently for being seen like this, so unkempt and ordinary, while he stood there looking like someone from an old song. All she could do was hope he hadn't noticed too much—and try not to notice how much she wished he had.
Emily. The name felt too simple on her tongue as she offered it, a stark contrast to the flustered beating of her own heart. He nodded in return, a gesture so polite and measured it made her feel even more aware of the flour dusting her sleeves. "Ardyn," he said, and the name sounded like something from a story. Mia, the cheerful girl with him, added her own bright greeting, completing their brief, awkward trio before darting off to "supervise."
Emily watched as Ardyn stepped further into the bakery, his presence immediately altering the space. The morning chaos—the clatter of pans, the distant shout of her father, the yeasty warmth—seemed to fade around him. There was something about him, something striking and almost unreal in the way he moved. He didn't fumble or hesitate; his posture was careful, yet effortlessly confident. How can someone look so… composed, she wondered, amidst all this mess?
Her father, a man of few words and even fewer trusts, had agreed to the unusual arrangement with a grunt, pointing Ardyn toward the woodpile out back. Emily lingered near the doorway, pretending to reorganize a stack of empty baskets as she watched.
He took up the axe, and her breath caught for a reason she couldn't name. But there was no wild swinging, no showy display. Each motion was precise, each swing measured and controlled. The wood didn't just split; it yielded cleanly, as if agreeing with him. She noticed his hands—how they gripped the handle not with brute force, but with a sure, natural hold, his movements flowing like a practiced dance. He's strong… and careful. Not like most boys his age, she thought, adjusting a stack of flour sacks a little too forcefully.
When he moved inside to help with the heavy sacks of flour, she couldn't look away. She saw the shift of muscle beneath his tunic as he lifted, the solid strength in his shoulders and back. It was real, honest labor, yet he carried the weight as if it were nothing, his breathing steady, his expression focused but calm. She gave him small, practical instructions—"That one goes near the mill," "Stack them two high, no more"—her voice thankfully steady, hiding the curiosity she knew was plain on her face.
He worked in silence mostly, but it wasn't an uncomfortable one. It was a quiet intensity, a complete absorption in the task. And with every precise chop and every effortless lift, Emily found her initial flustered embarrassment being replaced by a dawning, quiet fascination. Who was this golden-haired stranger who moved like a noble but worked like he'd done it all his life?
Sweeping the floor was another story entirely. Emily watched, half-amused, half-impressed, as Ardyn took up the broom. He didn't swipe haphazardly like her younger brothers often did. Instead, he moved with a quiet, methodical precision, working from the edges of the room inward, ensuring not a single corner was missed. Clouds of flour dust rose and settled as he guided every speck of dirt and debris into a neat pile. The bakery, usually a landscape of cheerful clutter, slowly transformed under his diligent effort into a space of ordered calm.
He's trying, she realized, a warmth spreading through her chest that had little to do with the ovens. He really wants this cake. The thought made her unexpectedly pleased. This wasn't just a transaction; it was a gesture, a determined effort to create something special for someone. She found herself hoping the cake would be perfect for him.
By the end of the evening, the air was thick with the sweet, comforting scent of fresh bread and caramelizing sugar. Her father slid the promised cake—a simple but beautiful round loaf drizzled with honey and studded with precious nuts—onto the counter, setting it aside for them. Emily looked at it, then at Ardyn, who was quietly returning the broom to its place. She imagined the satisfaction on his face when he presented it, the joy it would bring to his friends.
For all his unusual, almost unsettling beauty, it was his earnestness and his quiet, capable hard work that impressed her most. He had moved through her world of flour and heat not as an outsider, but with a respectful diligence that felt like a gift. And as she wiped her hands on her apron, she felt quietly, deeply glad to have witnessed it.
Ardyn gave a small, formal bow, the gesture strangely elegant in the humble bakery. "Thank you… Emily."
The sound of her name in his low, quiet voice made her cheeks flare a brilliant red. Her hands fluttered nervously, twisting the fabric of her flour-dusted apron. "O-of course! Anytime—I mean, come again soon—" she stammered, but the words were lost as he was already turning away, Mia eagerly tugging at his sleeve. The little bell above the door chimed their exit, leaving Emily alone with the echo of his gratitude and the warm, sweet scent of the promised cake.
Ardyn Veythar
The sun had already slipped behind the trees by the time they passed through the city gates, leaving the world washed in deep blues and purples. The road into the forest was a tunnel of dimming light, the lanterns of distant homesteads flickering like fallen stars against the encroaching dark. Ardyn carried the cake box with both hands, his grip firm yet gentle, as if it were something far more fragile than flour and honey. Each step was measured, careful to avoid any jostle. At his side, Mia skipped more than walked, humming a cheerful, tuneless melody under her breath, her earlier energy undimmed by the long day.
They knew Seres and Ethan had likely returned already. The thought should have brought urgency, but instead, it settled something in Ardyn. Tonight wasn't about beating them back; it was about carrying this small victory home.
As they walked deeper, the air grew colder, sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. Shadows lengthened, stretching like grasping fingers from the bases of the tall trees. But Ardyn barely felt the chill. His mind was elsewhere, painting a picture of the ruins ahead. He imagined the fire built high, casting a warm, dancing light over the gathered faces. He could almost see the steaming pots of food, the colorful, clumsily hung decorations the children had poured their hearts into, the small, meaningful treasures arranged with pride.
And at the center of it all, he saw Seres. He imagined her usual stoic expression softening into something rare and unguarded—surprise, perhaps, followed by that faint, precious smile that seemed to change her entire face. He pictured her eyes landing on the cake, a simple confection that had cost him a day of humble labor and a bit of pride, and understood its meaning: that she was worth the effort.
A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, a feeling so unfamiliar he almost didn't recognize it. It was a sense of belonging, of having contributed to a joy larger than himself. He tightened his grip on the box, a silent promise to the twilight, and quickened his step, eager to see the picture in his mind come to life.
When the ruins finally came into view through the trees, their steps slowed. A soft, golden glow spilled from the crumbling arches, torchlight dancing along the ancient stones. Outside, the younger children—Nico, Kai, and Luna—were gathered in a restless huddle, shifting from foot to foot with barely contained energy, their eyes wide and bright in the flickering light. But Seres and Ethan were nowhere to be seen.
The little ones spotted Ardyn and Mia instantly, their faces lighting up. They began waving frantically, silently urging them to hurry. The surprise was ready, the air buzzing with anticipation. Now, they only needed the guest of honor.
Inside the ruins, the children buzzed with final preparations—straightening garlands, placing bowls, their whispers a hopeful hum about Seres' reaction. Ardyn carefully set the cake in the center of their makeshift table, its drizzled honey and nuts gleaming in the torchlight, a proud centerpiece to their humble feast.
At first, the delay felt normal. Seres often lost track of time among the herbs, and Ethan was always eager to learn. But as minutes bled into a full hour, then two, the cheerful energy began to fray. The excited whispers faded into uneasy silence. One of the torches mounted on the wall sputtered and died, casting a long shadow across the room. Then another. The once-warm glow now felt thin and strained. Laughter was replaced by restless shifting and nervous, frequent glances toward the dark, empty doorway. The celebration wasn't just delayed; it felt suspended, waiting on an edge none of them had expected.
Ardyn tried to reassure them, his voice a forced calm that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "They'll be back soon. Maybe they found more herbs than expected." But even as he said it, a cold unease coiled tight in his stomach. The night air seemed to press heavier against the crumbling walls, and the forest beyond the torchlight had gone unnervingly quiet, too still, as if holding its breath.
Nico hugged his knees to his chest, his usual energy gone. Mia paced tight, anxious circles near the doorway. The younger ones—Kai and Luna—huddled close together, their eyes wide and fixed on the dark entrance. By the third hour, a thick, heavy silence had fallen over them all. The birthday feast waited, untouched and perfect, but the joy had drained completely from the room, replaced by the sharp, chilling edge of a worry they were all too familiar with.
The silence had grown thick and suffocating. The untouched cake sat in the middle of the table like a beautiful, cruel joke, and the children's anxious, pleading eyes kept turning to him, looking for an answer he didn't have. Every passing moment felt like a weight added to his shoulders. At last, Ardyn pushed himself to his feet, his expression hardening with resolve. The time for waiting was over.
"Waiting won't help anymore," he said, his voice low but clear in the tense quiet. "I'll go look for them."
Mia was on her feet instantly. "I'll come too!" she insisted, her small face set with a determination that mirrored his own. Nico and the others quickly began to rise, a chorus of "Me too!" rising among them.
But Ardyn shook his head, his gesture firm and final. He knelt slightly, bringing himself to their eye level. "If all of you leave," he reasoned, his voice gentle but unwavering, "and they return while the ruins are empty, how will they know you waited for them? How will they know you cared enough to prepare all of this?" He gestured around at the decorations, the food, the cake. "Someone has to be here to greet them. To explain."
He saw the protest dying in their eyes, replaced by a reluctant understanding. They knew he was right.
"And besides…" he straightened, reaching out to touch the rough wood of a nearby torch. The flames flickered, casting shifting light against the sharp lines of his face and the gold of his hair. "I went through these woods with Seres just yesterday. I know the paths she takes. I know the clearings where she lingers." He met each of their worried gazes. "I'll be quicker on my own. I will find them."
His reassurance calmed them, but only slightly. The fear was still there, a shadow in the room. He forced a small, confident smile onto his face, one he did not feel. "Keep the torches lit. I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone."
Ardyn moved with quiet determination, the weight of borrowed weapons a solemn comfort. He strapped the axe across his back, tucked Ethan's knife securely at his belt, and gripped the boy's sturdy spear. The familiar tools felt foreign in his hands, yet their solid presence made his shoulders feel heavier, steadier. With the torch held high, its flickering light pushing back the pressing shadows, he stepped out into the swallowing night. The forest greeted him with a chorus of hidden insects and the restless whisper of leaves, the paths he'd walked with Seres just that morning now cloaked in a deeper, more unsettling darkness. Without a backward glance, he pressed forward, each step carrying him farther from the safety of the warm ruins and deeper into the waiting unknown.